Monday, February 28, 2011

“Once upon a time there was a spooky ol’ ghost dressed all in black.” That’s as far as she got! The littlest Kinney had a question. “If ghosts are just spirit.” She asked musingly, “Why do they need clothes at all?” “Good question.” Admitted Laura contemplatively. This line of thought peeked the children’s curiosity, resulting in several additional questions. “If ghosts wear clothes,” asked another, “do they have to warsh ‘em? Do ghosts get ring around the collar?” This resulted in an outburst of exuberant laughter, exacerbated by youthful enthusiasm. Lidge perked up and his face shone with recognition of his opportunity to participate. “I wonder,” he said, grinning with anticipation, “If ghosts get lint in their belly-buttons.” “Ghosts don’t have bellybuttons silly!” chimed the twins in unison, and the entire hollow rang with squeals of laughter.

In the middle of this jocularity, the briars rustled and in stepped two more youngsters. Mick and Sid O’Meara had overheard the ruckus from across the hollow and come to investigate the cause of all the merriment. Mick seemed to sense the jovial mood of the assembly almost immediately. He sprawled on the ground, rested his chin on his hands, and offered a yarn of his own. “You should have seen what happened at our house! There’s a big ol’ alligator turtle in our pond. The McCauley’s cow was standin’ belly deep, coolin’ off the other day, when that ol’ snapper swum up and bit the end right out o’ one o’ her spickets!” The kids all groaned and grabbed their chests. The response was spontaneous and only served to encourage the storyteller. “‘Fore we could get a tourniquet on her,” he continued, “that ol’ cow leaked out three buckets o’ buttermilk!”

“Oh, go on!” said Laura. “That’s nothin’!” announced Lidge. “We had a big ol’ wolf trap set at our pond, tryin’ to catch a darned ol’ coon. One o’ them big snappers got caught by the neck. ‘Fore we could drag him out and give ‘im what fore, that rascal chewed his head off and got clean away! A couple o’ days later he come draggin’ up the hill, fit as a fiddle and carryin’ his head in his mouth!”"Obie's Quest"

Friday, February 25, 2011

I’ve taken the hopes & dreams, and doubts & fears, and triumphs & failures that we all have in common with those hearty souls who’ve preceded us, and created an affable, unpretentious character that young and old alike are likely to relate to on some level. And then I’ve inflicted him with much of my own childhood, debilitating vulnerability, incomprehensible faith, some of our country’s most colorful and gut wrenching history, and a plethora of the ubiquitous maladies that plague us all! And I’ve cast him, nearly naked, into the world. God, consider my motives and forgive me.

PLEASE ENJOY THE FOLLOWING EXCERPTS OF

"OBIE'S QUEST"

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

I painstakingly pecked out"Obie's Quest" during the early years of the current Millennium. My historical novel is comprised of over 110,000 words. When one lacks proficiency as a typist, that's a lot of words! I am not an English major. I'm just a poverty-stricken, old hillbilly with a story. I concentrated my efforts on telling that story, fully expecting that, at some point in time, the many facets of my innocuous little missive would be cut and polished by a professional editor who was equal to the task. Suffice it to say, that didn't happen. Excuse the rough edges and I think you'll enjoyObie's Quest. STC

PROLOGUE

October 1844 would mark the end of a youthful journey and the beginning of a lifelong quest. We’d been at sea for three long months. It was an hour or two before dawn and not a soul was stirring. Have you ever had that feeling that you’re being watched? Right at that moment, I had that feeling in a powerful way. I turned my head cautiously and glanced down the starboard side of the ship. All at once something aft caught my attention. I turned suddenly and had to squint and shield my eyes. There, low on the eastern horizon, just below the sail, was the biggest, most extravagant moon I’d ever seen. It was the same moon that had lit the skies over the Rhine valley during my youth, but it had always seemed distant and detached. Now, thousands of miles from the only home I’d ever known, it was suddenly a comfort to see something so familiar. It was the first time that a cold, lonely night had forced me to seek comfort and companionship in that ol’ moon. It wouldn’t be the last. My name is Obadiah Jeremiah Hezekiah Camp. I know that’s a mighty big mouthful, but my folks were bound and determined to name me after all four of my great granddads. You can call me Obie. I was nine years old when my family and I left our ancestral home in Germany to sail for America. I didn’t realize it then, but the innocent, carefree days of my youth were rapidly drawing to a close. Ahead lay inconceivable obstacles, incredible exploits, high adventure on the western frontier, and eventually contentment and an inner peace that many never find.

As I lay there on that hard wooden deck, staring into that starry stillness, the only sound was the groaning and squeaking of that old ships rigging, and the flapping of her canvas sails in response to an intermittent breeze. I pulled the tarp up around my shoulders as a sudden gust of wind garnished the deck with a blanket of fog that stung my chapped face and glistened on the coil of rope that served as my pillow. My brother Christoph lay on the deck at my side. Christoph was thirteen. He had serious doubts about this pilgrimage to America. His apprenticeship to the Count’s brewmeister had been lucrative, and he’d been very hesitant to accompany his family on this risky and unnerving excursion. He missed his home and friends, and had joined us reluctantly at the insistence of our father and the heartfelt pleadings of our mother.

There would be no more sleep for me this night. As the velvet black skies lightened to lavender in the east, a thin layer of scarlet became barely visible in the west. It was land. It was America. Soon the melancholy stillness was replaced with hustle, bustle, and the excitement of preparation. The crewmen were busily pursuing their assigned tasks, and the passengers were crowding the decks in a frenzy of anticipation. Yesterday, freedom, opportunity, and America had been only a well-worn, but very illusive dream. This morning that impossible dream was palpable. It lay on the horizon ahead of us, visible to the naked eye. It was no longer just an incredible dream. America was real.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

Oh how sweet that summer rain,
That stays but brief, then fades away in mist.
Oh how refreshed those graying fields,
That for a time forgot their grief as Heaven kissed them.
Oh how deeply must that interlude be felt,
When from the barren vastness where they knelt,
The grasses and the woodlands may renew,
However brief that ageless rendezvous,
To bathe our very souls in summer rain,To be alive, and feel life’s worth again.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Remember always that no one day defines your life. Good or bad, one single day is just that. Your “life” is the cumulative total of all your days. Make today your priority and don’t live in the past, but temper each day with your best memories of yesterday. Find new joy in old accomplishments, wisdom in past failures, encouragement in past successes, and fulfillment in each and every act of compassion.

Friday, February 11, 2011

“Once upon a time there was a spooky ol’ ghost dressed all in black.” That’s as far as she got! The littlest Kinney had a question. “If ghosts are just spirit.” She asked musingly, “Why do they need clothes at all?” “Good question.” Admitted Laura contemplatively. This line of thought peeked the children’s curiosity, resulting in several additional questions. “If ghosts wear clothes,” asked another, “do they have to warsh ‘em? Do ghosts get ring around the collar?” This resulted in an outburst of exuberant laughter, exacerbated by youthful enthusiasm. Lidge perked up and his face shone with recognition of his opportunity to participate. “I wonder,” he said, grinning with anticipation, “If ghosts get lint in their belly-buttons.” “Ghosts don’t have bellybuttons silly!” chimed the twins in unison, and the entire hollow rang with squeals of laughter.

In the middle of this jocularity, the briars rustled and in stepped two more youngsters. Mick and Sid O’Meara had overheard the ruckus from across the hollow and come to investigate the cause of all the merriment. Mick seemed to sense the jovial mood of the assembly almost immediately. He sprawled on the ground, rested his chin on his hands, and offered a yarn of his own. “You should have seen what happened at our house! There’s a big ol’ alligator turtle in our pond. The McCauley’s cow was standin’ belly deep, coolin’ off the other day, when that ol’ snapper swum up and bit the end right out o’ one o’ her spickets!” The kids all groaned and grabbed their chests. The response was spontaneous and only served to encourage the storyteller. “‘Fore we could get a tourniquet on her,” he continued, “that ol’ cow leaked out three buckets o’ buttermilk!”

“Oh, go on!” said Laura. “That’s nothin’!” announced Lidge. “We had a big ol’ wolf trap set at our pond, tryin’ to catch a darned ol’ coon. One o’ them big snappers got caught by the neck. ‘Fore we could drag him out and give ‘im what fore, that rascal chewed his head off and got clean away! A couple o’ days later he come draggin’ up the hill, fit as a fiddle and carryin’ his head in his mouth!” "Obie's Quest"

Thursday, February 10, 2011

This photo was taken on a hilltop in Dad and Mom's back 40. This is where we spread Dad's ashes, just prior to Thanksgiving Day of 2010. It was a small service, just immediate family. Little was said; few could speak. With what little voice I could muster, I gave The Lord's Prayer, and recited REQUIEM, by Robert Louis Stevenson. And then we walked home to face life without my father

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Am I happy? Why, I’m happy as a bug on the bow of a boat! Have ya ever watched a grasshopper at the bow of a boat, when the ol’ steamer is churning along at a good clip, the hull is pounding the cobalt blue water into a fine spray, and the shore is sailing by? And that old grasshopper is clinging to the railing for dear life, his little antennae are trailing in the wind, his molars are all catching sunlight, his eyes are glazed over and glistening in grateful satisfaction and the tobacco juice is streaming out the corners of his mouth and collecting in his whiskers and his ears? Now that’s happy! Obie’s Quest

During a twenty year period, from 1978 until 1998, I was a member of a small Baptist congregation which met faithfully, prayerfully and unpretentiously in a little rock church house in the Ozark Mountains of south central Missouri. As was the case with many country churches of the time, it’s membership consisted largely of precious old souls who were the product of a time which is unfamiliar and unimaginable to those of us who were not ourselves ravaged by age at that time, or have glimpsed that singularly unique time in faded, dog-eared albums, or heard the wispy voices of those who were there and share their recollections. It was a special time, a time never to be forgotten and unlikely to be repeated. During the two remarkable decades that I was blessed to worship with these dear old saints, rarely did a service conclude without our congregation rising, hymnals in hand, to join voices in one particular old hymn that soon became one of my favorites. From that time to this, that hymn has been my prayer. It’s my prayer now.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

This Sunday's afternoon outing was an invigorating hike through the snow, followed by cave explorations along Spring creek's many bluffs. Our quarry today was the illusive ice columns, which find refuge in these dark, secluded cracks and crannies during winter's chill. Here is an entire nest of the timid creatures.

"When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more, and the morning breaks eternal, bright and fair; When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore, And the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there." J. Black

It is always very cold on that lake shore in the night, but we had plenty of blankets and were warm enough. We never moved a muscle all night, but waked at early dawn in the original positions, and got up at once, thoroughly refreshed, free from soreness, and brimful of friskiness. There is no end of wholesome medicine in such an experience. That morning we could have whipped ten such people as we were the day before-sick ones at any rate. But the world is slow, and people will go to "water cures" and "movement cures" and to foreign lands for health. Three months of camp life on Lake Tahoe would restore an Egyptian mummy to his pristine vigor and give him an appetite like an alligator. I do not mean the oldest and driest mummies, of course, but the fresher ones. Mark Twain

Thursday, February 3, 2011

"I've never experienced air fresher, shadows deeper, or a scene so extraordinarily quiet and pristine! You'll laugh and think I'm crazy, but it seemed as though I could almost hear the stars." Obie's Quest